Some Days Are Diamonds Some Aren't
by Beth Green
Summary: A day in the life of Bobby Hobbes; Bobby, Darien owies. COMPLETE
1. Chapter One

Some Days Are Diamonds; Some Aren't By Beth Green  
  
Author's notes: A day in the life of Bobby Hobbes; Darien, Bobby owies. This story started out as a little bit of fluff called "Bobby's No Good, Horrible, Very Bad Day." Then the muses nudged me toward a darker pathway. This is the result. ***** Part One  
  
To the casual observer, the lone figure walking erratically down the darkened highway might have been thought to be under the influence. His gait was staggering and uncertain despite his efforts to maintain a strong, steady pace. However, there were no casual observers and the man was not drunk. The only thing influencing him at the moment was extreme exhaustion with its co-conspirator, extreme pain.  
  
If there were anyone to hear, they would have noticed that he was carrying on a conversation with himself. "C'mon, Bobby, no problem, just keep putting one foot in front of the other, left, right, left, right, left, right." He repeated the steps to himself in a military cadence. "It's all just mind over matter, and Bobby Hobbes knows his own mind."  
  
Speaking of himself in the third person helped to distance Bobby from his tired, aching body, especially his pounding, intense headache. He felt as if someone had wrapped a band around his head and they just kept squeezing it tighter and tighter. The pain occasionally gained the upper hand, trying to send him to his knees, while his empty stomach threatened to add to his misery with the churning of dry heaves. So far, he'd been able to beat it all back by sheer force of will. It still hurt like hell but Bobby Hobbes remained in charge. The pain was not going to rule him.  
  
He kept his gaze fixed as best as he could on the mile marker up ahead as it sometimes doubled, other times seemed to waver from side to side but never quite disappeared. It helped considerably that he had something visual to focus on. "There it is, one more mile, no problem, you can do it."  
  
Somehow, he reached his goal then staggered along past it. His eyes began to look ahead for the next mile marker, another goal to reach. He'd been doing this for . . . well, for longer than he wanted to know. He didn't want to examine too closely just how long he'd been on the road because that way lay discouragement and despair, not the emotions he wanted to keep company with at the moment. The righteous emotion of anger was needed to keep him going, so he would not give in to the extreme exhaustion that was trying to take him down. He was sweating despite the cool night air. His fisted hand was the only evidence of the pain his tired face strained not to show. His shirtsleeves were torn and bloodied. Abraded skin was visible through the rents in the fabric. One knee of his blue jeans was also torn. The dried brown stains around the frayed material hinted at yet another injury.  
  
He was determined to keep as much of his mind as possible away from his current waking nightmare. He'd learned in the past to use his mind to control pain, to focus away from it. All it took was mind over matter. "Heh. Yeah." He laughed to himself, adding with perhaps a slight edge of hysteria, "When you've lost your mind, it just doesn't matter." He mentally slapped himself. "Whoa there, Bobby, you are not going to do this to yourself. Not when you're the last man standing."  
  
As he continued on, his mind kept replaying the events which had led to his current circumstances. If he were the superstitious sort, he would have taken the start to his day this morning as an omen to stay home and lock himself indoors. Sighing with regret, Bobby thought, "If only I had."  
  
"Whoops! Wrong answer," he mentally scolded. "Look. Unless you suddenly turned psychic, there's no way you could have known that today the world would be out to get Bobby Hobbes."  
  
The morning had begun in a truly bizarre fashion. As he exited the shower, the shower bar suddenly broke loose from its mounting bracket, barely missing his head. The end of the bar flipped into the vanity mirror, shattering it into dozens of deadly shards. He thanked his luck that he'd avoided being injured by either the errant shower bar or the broken mirror. He'd shaken his head at the mirror, glad that he wasn't the superstitious sort, or he'd be looking at seven years' bad luck.  
  
In retrospect, maybe Bobby needed to examine this luck business more closely. He'd barely made it out of his subdivision before he met up with the next disaster of the day. He suddenly found himself fighting the wheel of the van for control when one of the tires abruptly blew. He muscled the van over to the shoulder of the road as it bucked and threatened to roll. Afterwards, he sat a moment, waiting for his hands to unclench enough so that he could let go of the steering wheel. Bobby had no idea how the heavy rush hour traffic had managed to avoid hitting the wandering van. He was just glad that it had.  
  
With a sigh, he removed his suit coat, rolled up his sleeves and went to check on the damage. He found a large nail buried deeply between the treads. At least the tire appeared to be salvageable. Bobby headed to the rear of the van to retrieve the spare tire. His jaw dropped in disbelief when he found that the spare, too, was flat. He punched the side of the van in anger, shaking out his aching hand immediately afterward. "Bobby, that was really stupid." He added, "So was not checking on the spare this week."  
  
He gave another frustrated kick to the hopelessly flattened tire as he muttered a few choice curses involving various gods under his breath. Were he the sort to believe in a vengeful god, Bobby would have felt that he was being punished for taking the name of god in vain when a car passed too close to his parked van. The speeding vehicle managed to hit a nearby puddle with enough force to send its contents rushing over the beleaguered agent in a sudden squall, drenching him from head to foot in brown, stagnant, muddy water.  
  
Rolling his eyes heavenward, Bobby asked, "Why me?" No reply was forthcoming. Seeing as no help was coming from above, he needed to arrange for some transportation. The agent called his partner on his cell phone. "Hey, Fawkes, where are you?"  
  
There was a pause while Darien pondered the reason for the question. Bobby should already know the answer. Deciding to simply tell the truth, Darien replied, "In my car. On my way to work."  
  
Bobby could hear the unasked question behind the answer. //Why are you asking?// Bobby responded with another question. "Would you be willing to make a little detour? Say, by the corner of Forest and Main?"  
  
Still suspicious, Darien replied, "I could. Any particular reason why I should?"  
  
Bobby confessed, "I'm stuck here with a flat tire and no spare. That enough of a reason?"  
  
Darien cheerfully replied, "Yeah, sure, what are partners for? Want me to call the Fat Man and let him know what's up?"  
  
As much as Bobby would have liked to avoid taking any flack from the Official this morning, he declined Darien's offer. No. Bobby Hobbes would face his own demons. "No, that's okay. I've got nothing better to do while I'm sitting here waiting. I'll take the heat." He knew that the Official would not be pleased to hear that he and Darien were going to be late for a scheduled nine o'clock briefing.  
  
The Official was as unpleasant as Bobby had expected him to be. He promised to dock Bobby's pay for both his and Darien's tardiness. Bobby did not maintain his cool at that statement as he felt his blood pressure rising. His meager paycheck and the Agency's penny-pinching ways were a sore spot with him. He decided to spell it out for the Official. "Sir, that's not going to solve anything. My paycheck is part of the problem. If I got paid enough money that I could afford new tires for my van . . ." Bobby stopped when he found himself speaking to dead air. He snapped the phone closed with much more force than necessary. To let off some steam while he waited, he decided to amuse himself by thinking up new nicknames for the Official, none of which were suitable for tender ears.  
  
Darien finally arrived, quite cheerful at the prospect of spending some time away from the Agency, whatever the reason. He willingly chauffeured Bobby and his flattened tires to his mechanic's garage.  
  
Bobby walked up to the assistant behind the counter. "I got a couple of flat tires. I'd like 'em patched up. Do you suppose I could just wait here while the job gets done?" The assistant burst into laughter as if that suggestion were the funniest thing he'd heard all day. Bobby's spirits sunk even lower than they'd been. As the man finally got himself under control, snickering and mopping up tears of laughter, Bobby stated, "I take it that's a 'No'?"  
  
The guy told him that they were swamped. He couldn't even give an estimate of when someone would be available to see to his tires. Bobby made it quite clear that he wasn't in the market for new tires, and left the old ones there to be repaired.  
  
He joined Darien as a passenger in his vehicle, less than pleased at doing so. He was not enjoying the fact that he was dependent on someone else's driving skills. Unfortunately, Bobby made the mistake of sharing his thoughts out loud. "Nothing personal, but I'm not happy when anybody besides me is in charge of a motor vehicle."  
  
Darien tilted his head downward, the result being that he was looking at Bobby over the top of his sunglasses. His partner's twisted smile told Bobby that he should've kept his mouth shut. Darien calmly asked, "Is that so?" He proceeded to floor the accelerator as he peeled away from the curb, leaving a trail of burning rubber in his wake. The rest of the drive in to the Agency, he seemed to take great delight in hitting every pothole in the road. Darien also managed to time the traffic lights so that he'd barely inch through before they turned red. Bobby silently gritted his teeth the whole way, not wanting to risk saying anything that might piss off his partner more than he already had; at least, not while he was behind the wheel. The drive seemed to take forever.  
  
It was two hours later than scheduled, but they finally arrived at the Agency. The pattern that Bobby's day had taken on continued. As Bobby started to head in through the entrance, a fellow agent came rushing out through the door at the exact same time. There was no way for either of them to avoid colliding. Due to the laws of physics governing rapidly moving, big-assed agents versus more compact, lesser weight colleagues, Bobby was forced backwards as he lost his balance. He ended up on the ground, way more up close and personal with the guy than he ever wanted to be.  
  
The guy crawled off of him, a lot slower than Bobby thought he should've moved. If Bobby didn't know any better, he'd swear the guy had been trying to grope him in the process.  
  
The man offered a quick apology. "Sorry. Gotta run!" and was gone.  
  
Bobby was wondering if maybe he shouldn't just stay where he was. However, when Darien offered a hand to help him to his feet, Bobby decided to accept. He stood for a minute, rubbing at his sore butt. His slow burn of anger came to a major boil when he felt the split in the seam of his pants. He pulled out his cell phone and began dialing.  
  
Curious, Darien asked, "Bobby, what are you doing?"  
  
"I'm calling a cab." Bobby listened to the canned music as the cab company's answering machine put him on hold.  
  
Gently, as if trying to reason with a lunatic (as perhaps his partner currently was), Darien questioned, "And why are you calling a cab? Did you take your meds this morning?"  
  
Bobby angrily replied, "Yes, I took my meds this morning. But that doesn't do any good when the entire damn universe is conspiring against you! I'm calling a cab so I can go home and go back to bed and pretend that this day never happened!"  
  
Holding up his watch so that Bobby could see the dial, Darien reasoned, "It's only eleven o'clock in the morning. Have you ever heard the saying, 'It's gotta get better, 'cause it can't get worse?' The day is young, and so are you," he offered. Hey, a little flattery couldn't hurt. "Besides, Bobby Hobbes isn't a quitter."  
  
Bobby's eyes narrowed as he considered Darien's words. "Yeah. You're right." Bobby snapped the cell phone shut decisively. "Let's get to work." Straightening his shoulders, he strode into the Agency, Darien following. A minute later, Darien placed a hand on Bobby's shoulder, stopping him in mid-stride.  
  
Irritated, Bobby snapped, "What?!"  
  
Trying not to be too discouraging, Darien pulled at the bottom of Bobby's jacket, trying to get it to hang lower. He was not successful. "Well, you might want to maybe just tie your jacket around your waist, there."  
  
Bobby attempted to twist his head back around enough to see what the problem was, but he couldn't. "Why?"  
  
Darien helpfully supplied, "Unless you want everyone to know that you own a pair of pink boxers with red hearts on them, you probably want to cover up the rip in your pants, that's all."  
  
Bobby felt his face flushing in embarrassment. "They were a gag gift. I haven't been able to get my laundry done this week and they were the only clean pair I had left." He quickly tied the arms of his jacket around his waist, asking Darien to check to see that the damage was well covered.  
  
Darien reassured him that it was. He couldn't resist adding, "You could have gone commando, you know." The devil in him pushed him to lean closer toward Bobby, practically whispering in his ear, "I did." Satisfied that he'd distracted his partner from the downward spiral his thoughts had taken, Darien headed for the Official's office, Bobby unfreezing from his shock at Darien's comment to hurriedly follow. **** continued in part 2 


	2. Chapter Two

Some Days Are Diamonds; Some Aren't By Beth Green  
  
Part Two ***** The Official gave them his usual cheerful greetings. "It's about time you got here. I've got an assignment for you."  
  
Eberts handed the usual file folders to both Bobby and Darien as they took their seats. The Official continued, "I need you to investigate Calco Oil. Specifically, there's been a serious accusation leveled that they've been diluting their product."  
  
Bobby held up his hand in protest. "Whoa, whoa there, just a minute. This certainly doesn't sound like an assignment that requires two highly skilled agents."  
  
The Official calmly replied, "I never said that it does. As I was saying, the possibility of Calco Oil facing criminal charges at this particular point in time is endangering a multimillion dollar merger between Calco and Bell Oil. Calco Oil is ready to ante up some serious dollars in gratitude if we're able to prove that they've been set up."  
  
Bobby could see the dollar signs dancing in the Official's greedy little eyes. It was all the more reason he did not want to take on this assignment, especially the way that things were going for him today. If anything went wrong, he'd never hear the end of it. "But, Sir, isn't there an agency that's supposed to be in charge of overseeing that sort of thing?"  
  
The Official's cheeks crinkled in amusement. "As a matter of fact, there is." He pointed to the large seal on the wall behind him. "The Bureau of Weights and Measures. In case you've forgotten, that's who you work for, at least for the time being. Seeing as I don't currently have anything else for you two to be doing, you might as well do something to justify your paycheck this week."  
  
Bobby slumped in defeat and scanned through the information he'd been given. It told him a whole lot more about the oil business than he ever wanted to know, but gave no clue as the where to begin investigating. He looked over at Fawkes, noticing that the man hadn't even bothered to open the file he held.  
  
The Official added, "There's also some suspicion that someone at the Bureau of Weights and Measures may have done the setting up. Check it out. You've got your assignment. Get to it."  
  
Bobby stood up, giving the Official a mock salute. "Aye, aye, Sir."  
  
He and Darien left, plotting strategy. If the Fat Man wanted a serious investigation, he'd get one. Bobby stated, "Okay. First thing, let's go pay a visit to Calco Oil."  
  
Darien disagreed. "I don't think so."  
  
Bobby did not appreciate being disagreed with, especially by someone who hadn't even looked at the case file. Indignantly, he echoed, "You don't think so? I suppose you have a better idea?"  
  
Smiling an irritating I-know-something-you-don't-know smile, Darien stated, "As a matter of fact, I do."  
  
His annoyance plain to hear, Bobby said, "Please, don't keep me in suspense. What do you think we ought to do?"  
  
Justifying his smug expression, Darien replied, "I think we ought to go by your place so you can put on a decent pair of pants."  
  
His anger turning to embarrassment, Bobby quickly agreed. Unfortunately, the only thing halfway clean he found to change into was a worn pair of blue jeans.  
  
As they headed to the offices of Calco Oil, Bobby voiced his hope that they were into business casual. Of course, they were the farthest thing from it. Everything about the place screamed "Money," from the ostentatious décor to the artfully decorated office staff.  
  
Their first task was to get by the tall, blonde receptionist. She was coolly efficient, informing them that the CEO, Mr. Mathers, would not see them without an appointment. Bobby was in no mood to be stonewalled. Pulling out his badge and shoving it in her face, he declared, "Ma'am, we're Federal Agents. Mr. Mathers himself has called us in to consult on a case."  
  
She stared at him, unimpressed. "I'm sorry, but Mr. Mathers never sees anyone without an appointment."  
  
Darien pulled his irate partner aside, deciding to try a little kindness. His voice pitched low and soothing, he began by introducing himself, offering his hand to the CEO's fierce guardian. "My name is Darien Fawkes. Please forgive my partner. He's been having kind of a bad day. Although, what he's told you is the absolute truth. Mr. Mathers did ask for our help." He looked at her hopefully, giving her his patented pleading puppy dog look. Every time Bobby saw it, he never knew whether to kick Darien or just give in and give him whatever the hell he was asking for.  
  
Bobby turned away in disgust. He missed seeing the woman's cold expression thaw as she took Darien's offered hand. "Well, let me just ring him, and see what he says." Once she'd spoken with her boss, they were quickly escorted into the depths of the building. Bobby felt like shading his eyes from all the gleaming silver and gold furnishings and décor that were meant to dazzle and impress. He did not let any hint of his impression of the place show outwardly. What he most felt was disgust at the overdone obviousness of it all. His disgust increased at the actions of his companions.  
  
As Darien viewed the passing scenery with an admiring eye, their blonde escort's haughty demeanor faded as she was obviously admiring Darien. Bobby saw her surreptitiously pass on a note, no doubt containing her phone number, as she handed them over into Mr. Mathers' office.  
  
Mr. Mathers was a tall, well preserved, older heavy-set man. He towered over Bobby, and even Darien had to look up to meet the man eye to eye. The CEO did not seem happy to see them, stating, "You've got five minutes."  
  
Bobby was ready to turn around and walk right there and then. Darien had anticipated his partner's action and had a hand wrapped tightly around his arm, keeping him in place. As Bobby opened his mouth, about to say something non-PC, he was distracted by Darien stomping on his foot.  
  
Darien looked at the CEO in honest puzzlement. "Mr. Mathers. Sir. We were under the impression that you needed our help. The Bureau of Weights and Measures . . ."  
  
Darien was abruptly cut off as Mathers spoke over him. ". . . are the ones who started this whole thing."  
  
Bobby was suddenly reminded of the Official's comment that someone from the Bureau might be dirty. Yanking his arm out of Darien's grip, he stated, "You may have dealt with someone from the Bureau of Weights and Measures before, but you haven't dealt with us. Maybe we can start over here, a fresh start, get a new perspective. Why don't you tell us everything from the beginning, like we don't know anything?"  
  
Darien cringed at his partner's last line, hoping that the CEO wouldn't pick up on it. After all, they did, in fact, know nothing. At least, he didn't. A three way staring match went on as Mathers mentally weighed them, taking their measure. When it seemed that the man planned to just spend all day staring at them, he finally came to a decision. "All right. Gentlemen. Please be seated." They took the indicated chairs and sat for the next hour as Mr. Mathers filled them in on more details than they could ever possibly want to know. Bobby busily took notes, while Darien did his best to try to stay awake and look interested in someone who had Eberts beat all to hell in the long boring speech department.  
  
Finally, the man ran out of hot air and they were able to leave, once again escorted by the blonde secretary. Darien rubbed at his eyes, trying to wake himself up enough to drive. As he became more alert, he remembered the note that Blondie had slipped him. He pulled it from his pocket, pointedly hiding it from Bobby's view as he read.  
  
Bobby, made all the more curious, asked, "So, she give you her phone number? Huh? Hey, c'mon, partners share, right?"  
  
Darien declared, "Yes, they do," and handed the note over. It said, "Please meet me tonight at 7:00 p.m. in the lobby of the Plaza Hotel." Darien looked at Bobby. Bobby looked at Darien. They simultaneously commented, "Huh."  
  
Bobby speculated, "It could be just a date."  
  
Darien agreed. "Yeah. It could be."  
  
"It could be some kind of set up, or a trap, or something."  
  
"Yeah, that too." So," Darien asked, "Back me up, partner?"  
  
Giving him a "thumbs up," Bobby responded, "Always. That's what partners are for." ***** continued in part 3 


	3. Chapter Three

Some Days Are Diamonds; Some Aren't By Beth Green  
  
Part Three ***** As they still had a couple of hours of daylight left, Bobby suggested that they visit the original investigator, a guy by the name of Fred Friendly. Bobby's first impression on meeting the man was that never had someone had a name that was less appropriate. The guy was built like a sumo wrestler and tried to intimidate them with his towering size. After Bobby introduced himself and his partner, Friendly made a face like he'd just bitten into something sour.  
  
"I'm Bobby Hobbes and this is my partner, Darien Fawkes. We're looking into the allegations that Calco Oil is having some quality control problems. I understand that you were responsible for the original investigation."  
  
The man snarled, "Of course I'm responsible. When the big money men didn't like what I'd found, they set the dogs out." He looked at them with a superior sneer. "I guess that would be you."  
  
Bobby wiped his hand over his face, the gesture giving him a moment to consider his words instead of doing what he wanted to do, which was smack the guy upside his head.  
  
They spent the better part of an hour with Friendly, and came away with nothing more then a sense of frustration as he stonewalled them at every turn. It didn't help Bobby's mood any when Darien decided to put on a little show for him on the way back to the car. He went into some kind of hip hop dance shuffle thing, chanting, "Who let the dogs out? Uh, uh. Who let the dogs out?"  
  
Bobby managed to resist the impulse to smack his partner upside his head. He suddenly realized the time. "Oh, crap! It's quarter to five. I've gotta call my mechanic, see if he'll leave the tires out where I can pick 'em up and let me pay him later."  
  
By the time he hung up the phone, he was angry enough to want to hurt someone. Instead, he let loose with a string of curses, some of which Darien hadn't heard before. When he seemed calmer, Darien risked a comment. "So, I take it your tires aren't ready?"  
  
Bobby angrily echoed his comment. "No, the tires aren't ready. You know what this means?"  
  
Darien hazarded a guess. "You can't drive your van?"  
  
This time, Bobby did swat him. "No! Yes! I mean, it means that I have to try to do a stakeout in your crappy car."  
  
Not appreciating being the target for his partner's bad mood, Darien swatted him back. "It's not a crappy car. Besides, who says you're doing a stakeout in it?"  
  
Bobby crossed his arms, as he reminded his partner of their plans for this evening. "Well, while you're out at the Plaza, enjoying an evening with Blondie, where do you think I'm gonna be? It'll look kind of funny, if you bring me along on your date. Besides, the way I'm dressed, I'd never make it past the doorman."  
  
Darien countered, "I'm not going on a date. At least, I don't think I am." Nevertheless, he headed to his apartment and changed into something a little more formal for his evening appointment. Bobby assisted him with concealing a wire under his turtleneck shirt.  
  
They arrived early for the meet. Bobby had Darien cruise the area around the hotel, looking for a concealed parking space. Unfortunately, it was pretty open. He ended up on a side street, hoping that the parked car with its lone occupant wouldn't be too obvious. Bobby slumped in his seat, listening in on his partner's date.  
  
Darien spotted Blondie the minute he walked into the lobby. She was sitting in one of the overstuffed lounge chairs, nervously smoking a cigarette. She stubbed it out as he approached. Shaking his hand formally, she said, "Thank you for coming. I wasn't sure you would." She paced nervously. "This is such a mess. I don't know how I let things go this far." Her speech was frequently interrupted, as she startled every time someone came near them. There was a fair amount of pedestrian traffic in the lobby. While there was safety in numbers, there was also no privacy. Finally, she said, "Can we go somewhere a bit more private? Maybe in your car? I'm not sure, but I might have been followed."  
  
With a quick nod of agreement, Darien led the way.  
  
Somewhere in the middle of Blondie's speech, Bobby realized that he'd been spotted. He pulled his weapon when he recognized the approaching figure. It was Friendly, and he looked pissed. Keeping the weapon out of sight, he locked the doors, yelling at the man through the glass. Friendly must have had a hearing problem, as he kept going, "What? Huh?" to everything that Bobby said. Bobby was majorly pissed off. Darien and Blondie were on their way, and the woman would probably split when she saw Friendly.  
  
Bobby rolled down the window, deciding that he was going to have to shoot the son of a bitch. No sooner was the window lowered then Friendly's huge hand shot out, wrapping itself around Bobby's neck. Bobby's fingers tightened on his gun as he managed to fire off a few rounds. They didn't faze Friendly. "Bastard must be wearing a vest," was Bobby's last thought before Friendly bashed his head against the frame of the car.  
  
When Darien and Blondie arrived at the car, Darien was confused at the absence of his partner. He'd explained to Blondie that his partner was along to provide backup. So, where the hell was he? The figure that stepped out of the darkness behind them was way too big to be Bobby Hobbes. Despite being built like a tank, the guy had moved quickly and quietly and now held a gun to Blondie's head.  
  
Friendly stated, "We're going for a little ride." Before Darien could ask, the man added, "Your partner decided to ride in the trunk."  
  
Darien reflected that this was definitely an "Oh, crap," moment. The smart thing to do would be to just go invisible and get the hell out of Dodge. Visible or not, there was no way he was going to be able to physically overpower Goliath, there. Unfortunately, Darien was now one of the good guys, and that meant that you didn't leave your partner at the mercy of a 300 pound gorilla. With a sigh, he let himself be forced into the front seat where Friendly handcuffed him to the door.  
  
Blondie was escorted to the driver's seat, while Friendly sat behind her with his weapon. During the drive out of town, Friendly and Blondie carried on a tense conversation. To hear Friendly tell it, he and Blondie had been having an affair. (Now, there was an idea that really turned Darien's stomach.) She was pissed at Mathers and, with Friendly's help, they'd set him up. For some reason, Blondie regretted that decision and decided to figuratively stab Friendly in the back. Friendly was understandably not a happy man. To Darien's relief, Friendly eventually declared that he was not a murderer. Darien's relief was short-lived, when the man added, "But there's a first time for everything." ***** continued in part 4 


	4. Chapter Four

Some Days Are Diamonds; Some Aren't By Beth Green  
  
Part 4 ***** Darien was well aware that the gas gauge on his car was defective, and never fell below the quarter tank mark. He decided not to share that information with Friendly. Mile after mile passed by and signs of city life, indeed signs of any life at all, were left behind. Eventually, what Darien had been waiting for came to pass. The engine began to sputter and cough until it quit altogether.  
  
Friendly angrily asked, "What happened? Why did we stop?"  
  
Darien helpfully offered, "Oh, I don't know. Maybe we ran out of gas?"  
  
Friendly was livid with anger. Blondie stepped up her efforts to convince the man that she'd realized the error of her ways and really did love Fred, after all. She was doing her best to get up close and personal while Friendly was in the backseat and she was in the front. She suggested that they take their discussion outside.  
  
Friendly readily agreed. He left Darien handcuffed to the interior of the car as he and Blondie stepped around to the front of the vehicle. Their discussion quickly became heated, and not with passion. Darien took advantage of the opportunity provided by his kidnapper's current distraction. He was not able to pick the lock on the cuffs. However, with the application of a little brute force, he was able to break the door handle that he'd been fastened to. There was still the matter of getting his partner out of the trunk. It would be quicker and easier if he got the keys back from Blondie. He quicksilvered, and stealthily approached the dueling duo at the front of the vehicle.  
  
Just as he'd gotten near enough to reach for the keys, the combatants decided to take their argument to a whole new level. Darien couldn't help the "oh, crap!" which escaped when they began firing. Friendly's first round took Blondie in the chest. However, her gun had fired just prior to her death. The shot that she'd been able to get off planted itself squarely between Friendly's eyes. As the giant fell, his finger reflexively tightened on the trigger, firing off one last round.  
  
Unfortunately, the last shot caught Darien as he was diving for cover. He felt an excruciating pain in his left thigh as the bullet tore into his leg, then felt no more as consciousness escaped him. An undetermined amount of time later, he awoke to the knowledge that his leg hurt; a lot. The resulting pain when he tried to move it nearly sent Darien back into unconsciousness.  
  
His entire body was clenched tightly in a relentless spasm of pain. He held himself absolutely immobile as he tried to breathe through the worst of it. An eternity later, the injured man was finally able to focus on something other than the all-consuming agony. He took stock of his surroundings. By the moon's glow, he was able to make out the still figures of Friendly and Blondie. He hoped like hell that they were both dead, as he didn't have the energy to deal with it if they weren't. Darien needed help. With that thought, he slowly reached for his cell phone. A few stray tears of pain and frustration escaped when he discovered that they were out of cell phone range. He took a long minute to regain his composure.  
  
"Okay, Fawkes, deal with it. Let's get a plan here. First, it'd probably be a good idea if you don't bleed to death. So, step one: get rid of the handcuffs." He crawled over to Blondie and retrieved the keys, setting himself free.  
  
Mentally congratulating himself, he continued. "Now on to step two: some sort of bandage." He managed to remove his shirt and wrap it around the hole in his leg. Darien was exhausted after doing so, but knew that he couldn't stop or both he and Bobby would more than likely never leave this place alive.  
  
He leaned back, panting from exertion. "All right. Good man. Now, step three: Get your partner out of the trunk." He paled at the thought of the impossibility of step three. "Now, come on, you can do this. You can't walk, but you can crawl." After retrieving the car keys, he began to slowly, ever-so-painfully, pull himself along the ground. Each move brought with it a whole new world of hurt. Everything became pain, and his job now was to move through it.  
  
By using a level of determination he did not fully realize until this moment that he possessed, Darien somehow managed to reach the back of the vehicle. He allowed tears of weakness to fill his eyes as he contemplated the distance between the ground where he lay and the trunk, which at the moment seemed impossibly high up. He scolded himself, "C'mon, Fawkes, don't wimp out on me now. You've come all this way, what's another few inches?" Darien knew that he'd only be able to muster the energy for one try at this, so he put everything he had into the effort. He heaved himself partially upright, balancing on his good leg. He shakily inserted the key into the lock, and grimly held on until the lid popped open and Bobby's face looked down at him.  
  
Bobby had been going nuts. It seemed like hours since the car had stopped moving, shots had been fired, and then silence descended. If Darien were able, he would have gotten Bobby out of the trunk long before this. If something had happened to his partner; well, that did not bear thinking about. However, the confined man had too much time to do nothing but think. If Darien was dead, then Bobby would not be getting out of here alive. If Darien was dead, Bobby didn't deserve to get out of here alive. He was supposed to back his partner up. He was the fully trained agent here, and he'd been taken out like a rookie. Bobby didn't excuse himself with the fact that his attacker was a human tank. This was all his fault.  
  
God only knew how long they'd been out wherever the hell they were. Bobby had been floating in and out of consciousness, not always able to focus his thoughts thanks to the knock on the head Friendly had given him prior to sticking him in the trunk. The first time he'd woken up had been the worst. When consciousness fuzzily returned, Bobby was aware that he was trapped in a dark, confined space. He'd immediately leaped to the mistaken conclusion that he'd been buried alive. Before his thoughts could send him into a total panic attack, he'd thankfully passed out again.  
  
The next time he woke up, he was more coherent. That time, his panic was due to the absolute darkness of his surroundings as well as his helpless confinement. He knew that it was possible that the whack on his head had caused blindness. He tried to talk himself out of that idea by remind himself that, being stuck in the trunk of a moving vehicle at night, of course it was going to be dark.  
  
Bobby tried to take comfort in the fact that at least he was still alive, although certainly a little worse for wear. His head ached like a son of a bitch. His stomach contents kept threatening to join him in the confines of his prison. Just the thought of having to deal with the end result if he puked was enough to stop him from actually vomiting. He knew that he had at least a concussion. He prayed that's all it was.  
  
Some unknown number of hours later, he heard the sound of a key at the trunk lock. He tried to get his aching body into some kind of attack position, trying to ignore the fact that his cramped muscles probably wouldn't allow him to do much more than flop around like a dying fish. The cuffs around his wrists didn't help his cause. Bobby braced himself as the lid rose. When nothing more happened, he peered over the edge, greatly relieved to see that his partner was alive and the cause of his sudden freedom. His relief turned to fear when Darien's eyes rolled back and he collapsed to the ground.  
  
Bobby climbed unsteadily from the trunk, leaning against the car until a wave of dizziness passed. He eased himself to the ground at his partner's side. Bobby checked him over, grateful to find that he was still breathing. He was alarmed at the amount of blood that Fawkes had lost from the bullet wound in his thigh. Bobby tightened the makeshift bandage, then pulled out his cell phone to call for help. The way this day had been going, he was not surprised to find out that they were out of cell phone range.  
  
At least Darien had the keys to the handcuffs, and Bobby was able to quickly free himself. Bobby checked the perimeter, giving a grunt of satisfaction that Friendly was dead, dismayed to find that Blondie was, too.  
  
Bobby got behind the wheel of the car, trying to restart the engine with no success. He smacked his hand against the dashboard in frustration. "This is great. Just great." He decided to go check on his partner.  
  
Darien had roused to the sound of Bobby's unsuccessful attempt to start the car. As Bobby leaned over him, Darien explained, "Out of gas."  
  
Bobby disagreed. "Nah. Gauge says there's still a quarter tank."  
  
With a weak smile, Darien replied, "Gauge 's wrong. I oughtta know. Tha's how we ended up stuck out here," he slurred.  
  
Bobby really hated the decision he had to make. He wanted to stay with Darien. But, if he did, they both might end up dead. He'd have to go for help. "Fawkes. I gotta tell you, this is not good. You're pretty messed up here. The sooner we can get you to a doctor, the better. I gotta go find us some help."  
  
Darien agreed. "'kay."  
  
Bobby was not quite ready to leave. "The ground's pretty hard and it's kind of chilly out. How about if you wait in the car?"  
  
Bobby took Darien's response of "Hmm," as agreement. "I hate to do this, buddy, but I gotta move you." He grasped Darien under the arms and began to pull.  
  
Darien's scream of pain was abruptly cut off as he lost consciousness. Bobby was just as glad. At least he could move Darien without hurting him any more. When he settled Darien in the back seat of the car, he noticed that the man's hands were icy cold. Hell, he was probably going into shock. Bobby removed his jacket and covered his partner with it. Having done all that he could, he set off down the road.  
  
His head pounded with every step he took, his nausea an unwelcome accompaniment. If nothing else, his misery was helping him to stay awake. Bobby wished that he had some clue as to where the hell they were. The road, the countryside, was deserted, as if he were walking through a ghost town.  
  
After an hour of solitary walking, he thought he saw headlights approaching in the distance. The exhausted man rubbed his eyes, trying to make sure that he wasn't hallucinating. Nope. They were still there, and getting closer. Thank God! Bobby waited in the middle of the road, determined to flag down what he could see was a freight hauler of some kind as it approached. When he was sure that the driver had to see him, he began waving wildly.  
  
To his increasing horror, the guy just kept coming, directly at Bobby. At the last possible second, Bobby jumped to the side, barely avoiding becoming road kill. He landed awkwardly, as he slid more than rolled along the pavement. His body protested this latest indignity by sending him once again into unconsciousness.  
  
What he hoped and prayed were mere minutes later, Bobby woke up, his body a mass of pain. He cautiously moved each arm and leg, testing its soundness. Thankfully, nothing was broken; just battered. His eyes didn't want to focus properly, his vision doubling. Well, that wasn't going to stop Bobby Hobbes. As long as he could see, it didn't matter if he was seeing double. As he continued his journey, a limp had been added to his growing list of infirmities, along with a nice case of road rash.  
  
It got to the point where Bobby was convinced that he was stuck in a nightmare he couldn't wake up from, one in which all he knew was that he had to keep walking down this deserted stretch of highway. His next coherent thought was the realization that the pink glow on the horizon was the sun coming up. It was another day. He stopped abruptly. Hell, a new day! My luck's gotta change!  
  
Bobby pulled out his cell phone, not daring to breathe as he dialed. He fell to his knees when the Keeper answered sleepily. Although he spoke so quickly that it was not surprising that Claire initially had trouble deciphering just what he was saying, being the bright lady that she is, she picked up on it pretty quickly. Using Bobby's cell phone and the mile marker numbers he was able to provide before he passed out, the Agency was able to locate both him and his partner.  
  
They were both unconscious, therefore unable to appreciate the concerted effort and genuine concern which had gone into the rescue effort. They did appreciate being roommates, once they were awake and aware enough to be appreciating anything.  
  
Bobby still had periods of confusion due to his head injury. Claire informed him that he had a pretty serious concussion, and she would be observing him closely for the next several days. Many times Bobby would wake up confused, at first unable to figure out what was real and what was nightmare. His most frequent and terrifying nightmare seemed all too real. He would wake up believing that he'd failed to get help, and Darien was dead. Each time, he would look over towards Darien in the next bed and stare at him until he knew that his partner was really there, alive and well. Okay, not exactly well, but alive.  
  
Darien's left leg was suspended over his bed in a traction apparatus. He was recovering from surgery to his leg, as the bullet had fractured his femur. Claire estimated that it would take six to eight weeks for the bone to heal. In the meantime, the pain was an ever constant companion.  
  
Darien kindly shared his description of the pain with Bobby, once. "It's like, when I move, the broken bones move, too, but I swear I can feel 'em scraping together as they move, and the pain kind of screams along the nerve endings and straight to my brain. And the pain meds, they don't take away the pain so much as just make me not care that it hurts."  
  
After that, Bobby decided that maybe his head didn't hurt so bad, after all.  
  
When three days had passed, Claire stated that she was satisfied enough with Bobby's progress that he could go home. Bobby grabbed his duffle bag, anxious to get up and out before Claire changed her mind. In his haste, he carelessly turned with his bag towards the desk Claire had been using. Before he could stop it, the bag crashed into a small mirror that had been sitting there, sending it to the ground in a hail of broken glass fragments.  
  
Darien quipped, "That's seven years' bad luck, you know."  
  
Claire was seriously reconsidering her decision to discharge Bobby after he crawled back into bed, pulled the covers over his head, and began chanting, "No, no not again!" ***** ~end 


End file.
